Harvey Wallbanger's Rose 4chords
by Angryventilationducts
Summary: Your name is Rose LaLonde, and you are angry. You've spent your entire day off trading passive aggressive barbs with you shrew of a mother. Unable to take it any longer, you escape to the local bar. The band's music isn't anything to write home about, but the juggalo bassist...deserves another look. A naughty one. Homestuck characters via A. Hussie. 4chords via Emi.


4chords

Gam/Ros

In which Rose entertains herself with a Juggalo Bassist to piss off her mother.

You are Rose Lalonde, and you are bored and angry as hell. It is your day off, and you are currently sitting in a bar cooling your heels. A majority of the day

has been spent in a battle of one-up-manship with your horrible shrew of a mother. "Oh wonderful darling, you have a day off! Maybe we can get makeovers

together? I know you are just dying for a mani-pedi!" You inspected the intentionally chipped and poorly painted nails on your hand quietly before responding,

"Oh, mother, I wouldn't want to put you out. You've looked so tired lately, perhaps you could get yourself a cucumber treatment and a massage? Doesn't that

young gentleman Ivan work there, I've heard he's just magic with his hands!" Your mother narrows her eyes and walks away in a huff. Score: 2, Rose. But as

always, you interaction with her is less than satisfying. You wish it could be different, but the both of you are so proud it may be nigh impossible to change

anything. Most of the day had been spent like that. "Want to go for a walk, I know I could use some exercise!" "That sounds wonderful, don't forget to wear

suntan lotion, Gog forbid we get skin spots!" And so on.

* * *

Eventually, you couldn't take it any longer. It was near dusk, and you soundlessly tread through the house. You could hear the haunting echo of a vacuum

cleaner somewhere in the distance, an indication that your mother was "cleaning" again. She must be drunk already. Grabbing your jacket from the side closet

on the way out, you yell into the empty air behind you, "Going out. Be back later." No response. Why can't we stop doing this to ourselves? The night air is crisp

and inviting, with just enough bite to make your nose cold, but not enough to make it run. Fall really is your favorite season. An eager orange moon hangs low

in the sky, as if it could not wait for the setting sun to disappear. Without much thought, your feet turn towards the nearest bar. Your loathing of yourself and

your mother have reached all new highs and you need to medicate. You chuckle darkly to yourself about that. Every time a Lalonde woman goes Grimdark, they

say they are on "vacation," and upon their return they smell of cheap hospital shampoo and desperation. You didn't enjoy the experience when you were

younger, you doubt you'll ever try it again. Drinking in public is far more fun, anyway.

* * *

Upon entrance to the local bar, you can already hear the hum of the band playing from the coat-closet. You ask the attractive young woman with blue hair

who is playing, "Duuuuuuuuh, It's 'Don't Turn Your Back On The Bodies'. They play here every Thursday!" Well, she was attractive before she spoke, anyhow.

You receive your jacket ticket and walk into the bar proper. It's not fancy, just a hole in the wall joint you like to hang out in to feel ironic. Or drunk. Whichever

comes first. You sit at the bar, and within 14 seconds someone is hitting on you, "Hey sexy lady..." You wave him away, "I'm gay. Fuck off." You consider

shaving your head and tattooing Medusa on it. The barkeep knows you well, sliding you your favorite drink, a Harvey Wallbanger. You thank and tip him. He

sees the look on your face, "I'll keep them coming, hon. Let me know if you want to talk." You don't know why he always offers, but you smile politely as you

always do. He seems satisfied with the response. Out of the corner of your eye, you finally see the band in the mirror. They are doing some shitty cover of an

Ac/Dc song, you think. Is...that, is that a clown? Why is there a clown? You spin in your chair bemusedly to get a better look. Why yes, that is indeed a juggalo

playing his heart out on the bass. You smile to yourself, you can't believe what you're seeing. It's too funny. You pick up your phone to take a picture, and as

soon as you snap it, the bassist looks up at you and makes a funny face. You laugh, and he breaks into a sexy smile. Wait, did you just call a clown sexy? He

winks and looks back to his work at hand.

* * *

You're on your fourth or fifth drink, you think. You've swatted off at least a dozen suitors, male and female. Every once and awhile you look back at the band,

and each time you guiltily get caught staring at the bassist. He doesn't even seem affronted by it, just giving you look after smoldering look. Maybe bringing a

clown home would piss off mother. Your mission is suddenly clear: Sleep with the juggalo! The band announces that their session is over for the night, and the

crowd applauds loudly. You didn't even realize how packed the bar had become. You poke your drink idly around it's coaster, wondering if it isn't time to go

home, since you are now having naughty thoughts about purple-clad clowns in crappy cover bands. You stretch, experimentally placing your feet on the floor.

They feel a bit wobbly, and you stumble backwards into someone's chest. "Whoa, now motherfucker, what you up and got your hurry on for?" a faintly

Southern American accent husks into your ear. (Thank Gog for the two years of linguistics!) Without skipping a beat you reply sassisly, "Can't a lady test her

legs?" His voice reaches a deeper timbre, "Testing for what?" Turning up the sass, but matching his husk, "Maybe I want to see if they'll go over my head!" You

turn defiantly to look at your attacker, and...it's him. He's smiling an languid, sex-on-legs smile. Your mouth dries, and your eyes pop open. He laughs, "Naw,

mami, I think you need a few more drinks in you before that happens." He guides you back to your chair, and you don't even bother to resist. "What's your

poison, mamacita?" Composing yourself, you arch an eyebrow, "Harvey Wallbanger. You?" His lips quirk into a bigger smile, "That's a big order to fill, chica." The

bartender comes over, looking inquiringly at you, you just shrug and smile. "One HWB for this hot momma, and I'll take a Pabst." The barkeep nods and gets to

work. Finally gaining control over your voice, you ask coolly, "I can tell your accent is Southern American, but I can't decide from where. Ecuador or Peru?" He

chuckles, "Yeah, actually my mom and I lived right on the border, so both, I guess? First time a motherfucker's up and noticed. I'm Gamzee, by the way." You

offer your hand in response, "Rose." He takes it, and plants a playful kiss on it. "Shoulda figured something sweet like you had a name like that." You pull away,

noticing he pouts at the loss of contact, "It's after my grandmother. What does Gamzee mean?" He shrugs, "Hell if I know, mami. My mom was weird." Your

conversation is momentarily halted by the return of the keep and his beverages. You take a sip of your sixth, (seventh) drink and look over the rim of your glass

at the clown.

* * *

He seems momentarily oblivious, staring away at something that clearly isn't there while taking a swig of his beer. His hands are rough-looking, calloused

and scarred all over. You spy a crab tattoo on one hand, and the beginnings of a sleeve tattoo on the same arm. You hear a rumble of a chuckle as his chair

scoots closer to yours, "Hey, mami, I'm up here." You blush, scrambling to recover, "Sorry, I just saw your tattoo...It's interesting." He looks down at it like he's

never really thought about it, "Heh, yeah, got it ages ago. The crab's new, tho. Got it for my roommate, (oh gogdamnit he's taken!) he's my best motherfuckin

friend." (Swooon, thank the gogs!) He looks speculatively into your eyes, "You got any tats, brosephina?" Now it's your turn to smile crookedly. "Sure do. A

couple of them, actually." (Your astrological sign around your pierced nipples, a Betty page pin-up on your inner left thigh, which is part of a larger tableau that

stretches across your lap and to the other side. All sexy pin-up girls (and roses) from the fifties. All of them. And lastly, a pookie-bear on your lower left butt

cheek. Ah, the days of youthful rebellion.) He looks over your exposed, pristine skin before leaning in with curiosity, "Where at?" You smile wider, "I couldn't

show you here. We'd get kicked out." His hand snakes out, brushing the top of your skirt and pulling it surreptitiously back. You squawk and swat his hand

away, giggling. "Not there! I told you I couldn't show you!" you whisper furiously. He leans in closer as the club music begins to pick up in volume, his husky

voice vibrating something deep in your body, "Then where you got those miracles up and hiding at?" This is it. This is when you decide if you take the clown

home to be a dirty girl. You turn to his hovering face a few aching inches away, telegraphing what you are going to do before you do it. His grin turns into a

sexy smirk to urge you on. You kiss him. You're the dirty girl. It's you.

* * *

As the kiss deepens, you realize there is no way you are making back to your penthouse home. Your body is on fire with need. He tugs you closer, expertly

opening your mouth with his tongue. You bite down experimentally on his lip, and giggle as he gasps. He returns the favor, making you groan. This has to stop

before you strip him naked here and now. You break off the kiss, dodging his attempts to recapture your lips. "Somewhere private?" you pant, gazing at his

half lidded, dancing, deep, brown eyes. You don't even mind the taste of greasepaint on your lips, you don't mind that it's probably smeared all over your face.

It makes you laugh, for real. You feel electric and alive. He doesn't say anything, but he pulls you roughly into a hug from your chair. "Mami, you gonna share

those miracles with me?" You nod, and are rewarded quickly with another earth-melting kiss. You wave at the barkeep and toss a Benjamin on the counter.

That should cover you for the night. He doesn't say another word, grabbing your hand and hurrying you through the crowd, throwing a knowing glance or two

your way. He leads you to the stage area vaulting up easily. Before you have an opportunity to do the same, he picks you bodily up over his shoulder to the

sounds of a few catcalls from the crowd. You squeal as he gives you a quick slap on the ass, knowing you should be embarrassed, but right now you give

absolutely no fucks about how this looks to other people. You are on a mission from Gog to see what's hidden under all of that hideous purple clothing and

clown makeup. The music fades as he takes you through the stage door, and when it slams shut it's almost completely dark, save the few flashes of light from

the strobe in the club under the crack of the door. He places you back on your feet, but his hands don't leave your hips. You stand on your tiptoes to kiss him

again, missing slightly and getting his nose. He giggles, "Tickles." You do it again because you like the sound. "Oh, you're gonna up and play games, then,

mamacita?" You feel your feet swept out from under you, and before you know up from down, he is cradling you, your legs over his shoulders, pressing you

against the wall and kissing you harder than you've ever been kissed. You hope it leaves a bruise, just to remember tonight. The stage door opens and you

panic, hiding your face behind his neck. He gives you a surprised look, yelling at the intruder, "Can't a motherfucker get his mack on in peace? Damn, brother!"

His bandmate calls out something lewd as he shifts you away from the wall and awkwardly hurries you both down the hallway a little more, turning into an

open door. He puts you down in a sprawl while he turns to lock the door behind you. You shift because something is poking you uncomfortably in a place you

definitely don't want sharp things to be. With a bm-tsss you realize you are sitting on a drum set. Heh. Bang-Bang! It must be a storage room.

* * *

"Oh, don't you worry none, mami, you're gonna get your bang on tonight!" You can't really see his dirty smile, but you know it's there. He hauls you up into his

arms again, putting you back in the same position as before. The heat of his body is a lovely contrast to the cool of the concrete wall behind you. You lick his

lips lasciviously, tugging at the hem of his shirt. He growls and throws it off and over his shoulder. Before he has time to return to your lips you lean down and

nibble at the base of his throat, making him groan and throw his head back. Taking calculated kisses further up, you nibble, hard, at the tendon behind his

ears. Oh how it works wonders! His hips involuntarily buck into yours as his fingers scrabble to find any exposed skin of yours, kneading and exploring. With a

throaty groan he tugs at the buttons on your shirt, and you quickly divest yourself of the offending garment. You find you have just enough leverage to rub

yourself against his groin, and do so expertly, eliciting a keening whine. Suddenly, your panties are gone with a piteous rip of cotton. Oh! OH! His clever

bassist's fingers find their way to your sweet spot, circling and dipping into your center with a delicious rhythm. His other hand pushes your bra over your

breasts, making you wince slightly into his neck. It isn't really painful, the pull on you piercings was just unexpected. He hums with pleasure at the discovery of

your nipple-rings, giving light tugs and twists to each. Your breath hitches as you come, your hands rip him away from nibbling on your neck to kiss him with

desperation. As you spasm he thrusts effortlessly with his fingers, faster and deeper, making you cry out unintelligible syllables. You taste the words,

"Motherfucking tight in here" as he smirks against your lips and withdraws his fingers. You whine wordlessly at the loss before he reassures you, "No worries

chiquita, I ain't done with you yet."

* * *

You hear the zipper of his pants working their way down and I'm struck with a sudden fear. What if he doesn't have any...? You don't want to stop, but you pull

hesitantly away from him. As if reading your mind he murmurs into your ear, "Stop with that worryin noise, mama, I'm a musician. Motherfuckers like me always

gotta be packin." You laugh breathy relief into his shoulder as he presses the condom into your palm, as if to reassure you that he intended to use it. With a

final tease to your clit he lets you down on your feet, sliding your body sensuously against his own. Your skirt catches against the light switch, and the room

swims into focus with phosphorescent brightness. You spring from each other in panic, but when you move you see your skirt caught on the switch. You both

break into howls of laughter. In the light, he looks better than you expected. You move closer, spying a desk behind him,and you push gently until his backside

hits it. The condom is still in your hand, and he whispers in your ear, "You know how to use one of those, mami?" Deciding to show him rather than respond,

you shove him until he's sitting on the table. His olive-tan skin ripples over his muscular body, leaning into your every touch and kiss as you explore your way

down his body. You suck a nipple into your mouth, biting lightly, winning you a guttural groan and twitch of his, oh my, huge, waiting cock. Your hands busy

themselves scratching and teasing every piece of available skin, making him writhe in want. Your lips slowly make their way further down, kissing each

abdominal muscle, his thighs, everywhere... but there. He lets out a shaky sigh, "M,motherfuck!" as you hover over his cock with your lips. You give him you

best naughty smile as you suck the opened condom reservoir into your mouth, pressing it down his length until your lips met his groin. His hips buck with

abandon and his hands tangle themselves in your hair. You don't stop there, circling the top of his member with your tongue and sliding all the way down, over

and over, alternating between fast and slow. You cradle and tug his balls gently, and he spouts out something in Spanish that definitely sounds blasphemous.

Your other hand brushes lower, circling his entrance questioningly. Without so much as a word, he hands you another condom. You gleefully roll it down your

finger, circling his entrance again as he scoots his butt closer to the edge of the table to give you better access. With a final warning of where your finger is

going, you press in. His moan rattles the storage room walls as he presses forward, enveloping it in its entirety in a second. You thrust, searching for that one

spot...Bingo! He cries blasphemies to the ceiling as you brush it over and over again, synching up your prostate massage with the movements of your other

hand and mouth. When you feel his body tensing up to come, you slow down. He growls and grabs at the back of your head, but you swat his greedy fingers

away. You want this to last, it just feels too fucking good to let go all at once. You continue the sweet torture until your hands are tired and your mouth hurts,

and he looks as if he's ready to come apart at the seams. You feel his need coming again, and this time you speed up, his fingers kneading into your shoulders

as he whispers urgently, "oh Fuck oh Fuck, fuck Fuck FUCK!" He grabs the back of your head as his hips slam upwards, and you feel his orgasm rip through his

body.

* * *

You stand up, exhausted, but victorious. You fling the dirty condom from your hand somewhere behind you and stand with your hands on your hips, lording it

over him. He pushes his sweaty hair back with a shaky hand and a devious smile, "Oh you think you've won, motherfucker? That's just one battle, not the

whole war!" Before you can register your surprise, you find your butt planted firmly on the table and a grinning naked clown between your knees. His eyes look

intently at your lap tattoo and he noses your pin-ups greedily. "Motherfucking miracles here, beautiful sister." He reverently kisses the face of each pin-up while

simultaneously rubbing your center in a circular motion, but never pressing inwards. You refuse to beg for release, breathing heavily. He senses your resolve,

smiling into your thigh and planting a sloppy kiss on Betty Page. Without warning he turns his attentions to your (thank gog freshly shaven) labia, licking and

blowing cool air over it with a maddening rhythm. His thumb lazily circles your entrance while his other fingers work over your clit. "Motherfucker won't make a

sound now?" His face watches you intently as he licks the top of your pubic mound, dipping in a quick swirl around your nub. Your hips buck, but you bite down

on your lips to stop yourself from screaming with a naughty smile. You arch your eyebrow with a silent challenge, "Make me scream, motherfucker!" He grins

wider, tearing his eyes from yours and using his tongue to answer you. He's unrelenting, licking, nibbling, blowing, sucking, carrying you to the very top of

Orgasm mountain like a victim to be sacrificed to the Sex Gogs. He still won't touch you just where you want it, but you won't beg. You'll never beg! You're so

close, feeling the flutter of your muscles beginning to tighten. One of his hands disappear, and you think you hear tinfoil tearing, but you can't get yourself to

care. You're lost in pre-orgasmic torture, screaming silently in your head, "FUCK ME FUCK ME FUCK ME!" He flicks your nub and your body rebels against you,

arching to his touch, your lips let out the slightest moan.

* * *

Before you know your ass from a teacup, he slams himself deep into your body. You come immediately,

arching and writhing with a scream. It's like he took a running start to throw you off the cliff into the abyss of pleasure. There is no way you can stop yourself

from crying out so you give in, a litany of curse words and moans charging through your mouth as if propelled by the thrusts of his magical penis. You dare to

peek at his face, and it seems serene with victory. He picks up the pace, thrusting harshly through your orgasm, pushing you further in. Your body won't stop,

racking over and over with spasms and chills. He grabs both of your legs, closing them and pulling your hips flush with his. He pounds you harder, and you're

certain the table will break with the force with which he's driving into you. You are nothing but a writhing mass of pleasure and sound at this point, your nails

clawing deep marks into the table under you. "That's right, motherfucker, talk to me!" His hips roll and snap against you and you moan for all you're worth. He

grabs you up from the table, slamming your back roughly against the cool wall, which is a relief for your sweaty body. You're practically folded in half, but you

just don't give a damn. You are riding a sea of orgasms, and he is Poseidon. He kisses behind your ear as his thrusts begin to become erratic. Your senses

come back long enough to whisper dirty, devious things in his ear. He comes with a shout and a final hard thrust into your body. You're gelatin at this point. If

he goes down, you're going with him. Maintaining a modicum of control, he slides the both of you to the floor. Finally on his knees, he extracts himself before

sprawling out in a sweaty mess on your stomach. He mutters something into your bellybutton, but you don't hear it. "What?" you ask sleepily. He rolls over so

his eyes look directly at you. "Motherfucker, I said 'How was that, Harvey Wallbanger?'" You laugh harder than you have in years.

* * *

Note: Thanks, Librarian ,for the kudos!


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